she whispers in my ear to gather those
scattered pebbles and dirt and broken
fragments of a bottle of vodka.
she knows that these alleyway pieces
of muck, they were once me.
maybe you buzzed by the tip of my
earlobe, when i wasn’t watching.
maybe you twisted these earthen words
into an irregular shape.
like the day that my left foot slapped
that pattern of footsteps and other
lost things that we dropped
into nowhere, as the hands clapped
together, and sung ‘noon’.
i remember your hand dangling like
a string of yarn
from the sooty window, as the train
clik, clok, clik
pushed me backwards into
it isn’t because i waited for just
one more second
and screamed to the daunting fiery
pendulum, i need more time.
it isn’t because i wasn’t watching when
the black and white world ate your
maybe it isn’t i was.
maybe it’s i am.